I thought I've seen the light, all of us assiduously seek,
though in a flash,for only an ethereal moment perhaps.
I yearned to catch that gleam in my wavering words,
so that I can keep it in your lovely eyes  where it belongs,
wasn't I right, in thinking so, only your eyes can tell me now.
I eagerly peer in to those dark eyes when you read my verse,
the magic happens ,my being beats in unison with that light, dissolves

time is limited these days.

those one admired in youth

devastate us now.



can we know all things, we

only went twice ?



the back road was

littered, rather blustery.



today



clouds blow in, leaves

crake and groan.



i say again, a darker green.



sbm.

some of us like to be neat in some ways.



some of us draw big and messy, and

i understand both.



we have made marks a long time, since

the dawn of.



probably.



when he could not write,

he crossed and smiled.



we continue marking

time, with smudges, scrapes

plus tidyness.



the brain interpretes.



so will you listen or go on

your way, regardless.



sbm.

@===#

The arms of the trees
Pluck a banjo for the man
Hid on his knees
His Instrument's fan

Sets the stars a-twinklin'
If you have a chance
Watch the clouds dosey doe
Watch mountains dance

A saguaro he plays on
The spoons and the saw
The wind blows at tune
On harmonica!

Brighter than street lights
Moonbeams cut like a knife
Head like a melon
Larger than Life

Yep... the moon plays a banjo
Orion the fiddle
Owls they play metal string
The cat's in the middle

Playin' the drums
Just as loud as you please
Yep... the moon's playin' banjo
With the arms of the trees!


SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/18/2016

Dozens of smelly pooping critters
None of which belong to me
Are on my last nerve tonight

I have walked for an hour
And a half
Chasing two houdini goats
And I am flat tuckered

Something has to give
The hogs are even
Starting to complain

They cling to the earth
like lichens
in deep meditation

Lophophora williamsii.
Fallen warriors sprinkled
throughout the blackbrush and mesquite
there in the valley of the Rio Grande.

They whisper to you
as you roam that arid slab of ground
and spin like Van Gogh
in the night sky
while you sleep.

They call you this way
and that
lead you in directions
you did not intend.

In the dry washes
beware
rattlesnakes wait in every thin patch
of shade

and at night
lightning switches the lights on
and off
and on again.

Once the spirit
of this unassuming succulent
enters into you
accepts you
uplifts you
the sky opens
and reveals the pulsing heart of
God's creation
speaking softly in tongues
heard only at the beginning.

It is glory then.